He sat down next to the others. Studiously ragtag bohemians carefully squandering the waking hours. Pieces of a conversation that when added weighed nothing and meant nothing. He stopped listening and looked east to the valley and saw among the Victorians the wavering image of Ohlone people in a loose band collecting seeds and trapping fish in Mission Creek, babies strapped to tattooed mothers and men naked as Adam heedless of the evening’s coming fog and up the hill sequoias and coast red woods huddled like mourners. Sea lions on the beaches thick as pavement. In the bay an alien galleon loaded with steel and powder. Sails slack and men streaming into boats, skin oozing a new pestilence, hands holding Spanish blades. The Ohlone watching and having no words for it.